


Thin Partitions

by Valyssia



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe, Doppelganger, F/F, Hell's Bells, Original Character(s), Season/Series 06, The Chain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-09
Updated: 2011-07-09
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:37:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valyssia/pseuds/Valyssia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three paths converge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thin Partitions

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written April of 2008. Edited July of 2011.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. Warm, sweet air, damp from the spring rain fills my senses. I savor the earthy smells of the meadow. I open my eyes again and look around. The warm midday sun shines off the dew-covered wild flowers, grasses and vines, giving the meadow a majestic luster.

My doddering gaze eventually comes to rest on my grandson. With each eager step, his head bounds up, peeking briefly into view from behind the tall grass just down the trail.

Excitement rings in his voice when the youngster calls back, “Come on, Grandpa! Come see!”

I raise my hand, waving to him. “You run along. I’ll be right behind you,” I holler cheerfully and start off after him.

The warm sun soothes my old bones as I move, easing the aches and pains brought on by the rain. I follow the trail at a slow, steady pace, the impatience of youth goading me along.

The forest looms in the distance, but soon we’re in her midst. Magnificent ancient trees rise up out of the earth to tower above us.

As I pause again to admire the beauty, my grandson’s eager voice announces, “Just over the ridge, Grandpa.” His face lights up with a bright smile and he’s off again. I swear he runs circles around me, covering twice the distance he ought with no end in sight.

Leaves crunch now and then beneath my feet as I steadily weave my way up the familiar trail between the great old trees. The forest canopy remains thick to the very edge. Upon reaching the coast, I peer from the tree line into the great black expanse and ask, “Do you know what this is?” Lights twinkle from within the void as if in answer to my query.

“The end of the world?” my grandson answers in a voice thick with awe.

I lean out to gaze down the lush green coast. It curves around, cupping the void, but cradling it in turn, each thing existing in a precarious harmony, one with the other.

Stooping, I test the ground for moisture before sitting down at the edge of our world.

The precocious youngster comes to stand beside me. His manner reflects his usual sunny disposition until he has my answer, “Or the beginning. It depends on whether you believe the glass half-full or half-empty.” Then he turns to brooding.

In a faint, thoughtful voice, he asks, “Has it always been this way, Grandpa?”

“The void has been here since time began and ended,” I offer, realizing again that I don’t have the words.

Briefly meeting his gaze, which is now level with my own, I turn to peer down into the dark star field at my feet. He takes a seat at my side. We sit in comfortable silence, enjoying the company for a time.

Finally, I disturb the tranquility by reaching into my coat pocket and retrieving a well worn piece of cloth. I hand it to my grandson and inquire, “What do you see?”

I observe as he runs his fingers over the cloth and opens it to view a worn image woven in the fabric of a meadow.  “It’s the meadow back there,” he replies, pointing over his shoulder.

“Pull just here,” I instruct, indicating a loose thread.

Following my directions, he tugs at the string. The cloth unravels in his hands as he continuously pulls until all that is left is a pile of yarn.

“Is the image gone?” I ask.

My grandson nods as he stares forlornly at the remains.

“But you still remember it,” I say, taking the mass of yarn from his hands.  “And if you always remember it” — I lift the yarn up for him to see — “does that mean it’s truly gone? We could create another image from the yarn. We could make exactly the same image. Would it be gone then?”

I place the tangle of fiber in my jacket pocket while my grandson sits contemplating my words.

Eventually, I clarify, “Each of these lights is a thread” — pointing down into the void — “a choice. See how they twinkle? One goes out as another grows brighter? A hope dashed, a promise broken, a love confirmed, lives churn and change in the void.”

My eyes fix on a bright flash of light and I stare at it for a time. As the light grows brighter, I place my hand thoughtfully to my chin. “A life altered,” I mumble softly and rise to my feet, turning my back to the void. 

I extend a hand to him and remark wryly, “We’d better be getting back for supper or your Grandmamma will skin us alive.”

As we depart, I place my hand into my pocket to caress the tiny tapestry.

  


* * *

  


I close my eyes for a moment, blocking out the chaos, to take in the smells of candles, flowers and the crowd. The air’s heavy with sweat and perfume. The din of their voices makes me anxious, so I slip a little deeper into the solace I’ve found, a quiet niche in the storm. I used to love people. I used to enjoy being the center of attention.

That was before.

My eyes flutter open. I make them. Peering out of the corner of the room, my gaze comes to rest on Xander, who’s standing near the bar. I almost feel sorry for him. He looks so confused—so torn by all the stuff going on around him. He should be happy, but ‘happy’ would mean that everything in his life is right…and it’s not. In a big way it’s not.

I can totally appreciate the sentiment. He’s trying to placate. I watch the people—all strangers to me, relatives to him—move around him. It’s like watching frenzied sharks circling a big Xander-shaped wad of chum. I chuckle. My poor ‘chum.’ I wonder if that’s where that comes from. 

My attention briefly rests on his father. I’ve only met him a couple of times, but I know who he is. Xander’s watching him. I can see the angst.

I can practically _smell_ it. It pours off my friend like a disease. His thoughts are almost tangible.

Mr. Harris—the senior—has already begun to marinade in his ‘sauce’ of choice. ‘The sauce’—that’s what Xander calls is—it’s really the perfect analogy. Sauces are for dipping. Just a little bit of flavor to spice up whatever—bathing in them should be badness.

And poor Xander, he’s wondering if that’s what he has to look forward to. I know he is.

Mr. Harris turns on his barstool toward the center of the room to survey the crowd just in time. _Uh-boy._ D’Hoffryn enters the room with Halfrek on his arm. And of course, Mr. Harris notices them. I mean, what’s not to notice? It’s not every day you see a six-foot tall, gray skinned, multi-horned demon with a pretty brunette on his arm.

Well, if you’re not me, that is. I’m sorta used to it, but Mr. Harris—Mr. Harris is—this is gonna be—

He reaches out from his place at the bar and gropes Halfrek’s bottom, then bellows, “Guess I’m not the only horny old man in this freak show.”

Uh-boy! Badness! I cringe. I can’t help it. If I was a bit more squeamish, I’d be watching this through parted fingers.

Halfrek spins on the human. As she turns, her face shifts, turning all yucky. She hisses, “Insolence!” and draws back to strike Mr. Harris.

I should stop this. It’s working its way toward ‘train wreck’ like Clem goes through hot wings. Bad enough he ate the bones. I swore he’d eat the box. 

D’Hoffryn catches her arm, stopping the attack as he levels on Mr. Harris. A wolfish grin settles over his features. He regards Mr. Harris with a detached fascination briefly before he growls, “Now, Halfrek, remember why we’re here.” Their eyes meet and D’Hoffryn communicates everything he needs to with a single piercing glare. Reclaiming Halfrek’s arm, he adds, “This mortal’s time will come…and far too soon for his liking if he doesn’t learn a few manners.”

Mr. Harris slips off his barstool, staggering to his feet. He blinks furiously at Halfrek. The view didn’t improve. So he moves on to D’Hoffryn. And back and forth and back and forth…

He finally managed to break the ping pong pattern by catching the bartender’s attention. Another drink is the only thing that’s gonna help.

And this time he might actually have a point. Too bad he didn’t have one the first ten or twelve or twenty times.

As he orders, D’Hoffryn and Halfrek move on.

I catch myself mid-sigh, realizing how good it feels for something I’m barely aware I’m doing. Funny how that works.

My attention returns to Xander. He’s just a shade shy of mortified and hanging his head.

D’Hoffryn and Halfrek brush past him.

Mr. Harris pounds back his shot and peers over his shoulder, grumbling, “Circus freaks—damned touchy bunch.”

Xander cringes.

I can’t help but feel bad for the poor guy. But that could’ve been lots worse.

Xander’s allowed only a few moments of peace before the feeding frenzy resumes. The first shark to arrive is a little old man I don’t recognize. He says, “Excuse me,” in a soft, polite voice.

Not much of a shark, really. But it gets better when Xander’s Uncle Rory steps in and tries to inquire about the ‘photographer.’ My sister tugs at Xander’s sleeve.

The final shark is his mother who demands, “Honey, please listen to me.”

Xander turns from face-to-face. If he was cartoon Xander, there’d be smoke rolling out of his ears.

I still haven’t moved. Some hero I am. I wish I could help him, but I’m barely helping myself. This is sort of _his_ thing anyway.

As copouts go, that’s not a bad one. I’m just not sure what I can do. Not much without making a scene. I don’t know anything about the photographer and I certainly don’t have a clue about his mom. I think I’m grateful.

Dawn grows more insistent. There’s a whole lot of tugging. “Xander?” She sounds hyper stressed. “ _Xander_ , one of Anya’s presents got loose!”

And that’d be why. I snicker. It’s shameful.

The old man pulls anxiously at Xander’s other sleeve. Between the two of them, they may each end up with half of a tuxedo jacket.

“Please, I really need to talk to you,” the old man insists.

But Xander’s just getting around to registering Dawn’s demands. He mouths, “Got loose?”

I lean back into my corner so far my shoulders touch the walls and fold. Yeah, I really should do something soon. This is gonna escalate into a riot without an intervention.

  


* * *

  


My lungs are empty.

I gasp for a breath that just won’t come. My chest aches. I gag. An acrid taste fills my mouth. I swallow thickly, pushing the sickness down.

Suddenly aware that I’m doubled over, I fall back onto ground. Pain burns through me, hot and intense.

But I’m cold. Cold like—I’ve never been so cold in my life. My jaw aches from clenching it to keep my teeth from chattering.

The big black blur turns to a big grey blur when I open my eyes.

I force my stiff arm to bend. It hurts. I don’t understand why. Ignoring the discomfort, I run my hand over my bare chest. A thin layer of viscous fluid coats my skin.

My movement causes something strange to happen. I feel pressure against my skin.

I thought I was alone, but several soft, slimy objects slide off my body, slipping out and gliding away.

I feel alone now, completely exposed and even colder.

If that’s possible.

I should feel violated, but I’m too—

Am I blind? I blink and rub at my eyes, hoping they’ll clear. Maybe if I can just get rid of some of this—

I still can’t see.

I take another breath, trying to calm myself. I’m shaking and I’m not sure if it’s the cold or fear.

A thick, pungent smell fills the air. I retch again.

As I fight for control, the odor triggers a flash of memory. I see a large, spotted, green mollusk.

‘There is no truth.’ The words hang in my mind. Should they mean something to me?

Lights flash around me and I blink. I’m not blind, but I can’t see. I can’t make out the shapes. They’re just flashes, nondescript and indistinct.

A muffled alien voice quivers through the haze, “You were the one, The Chosen. You were our best hope. You failed. We are driven further underground by your war. Our homes lost. Our territories and numbers dwindle.”

I’m what?

I flinch away, trying to escape as they return. They slide underneath me, in spite of my thrashing.

Or maybe because of—? I dunno.

I quit and realize that I’m moving.

Where are they taking me? I reach out, flailing my arms and legs, trying to find something to grab hold of.

My heart hammers in my chest. I beg them to stop, but my parched throat snuffs the words out.

The voice sounds through the haze once more, “You have been judged. You will find the path and repair the line. You and your kind are to blame. You believe yourselves wise—fit to rule all. The chain is broken. The tapestry unravels. Yet you remain ignorant. You will answer the call.”

Water rises up around me, bathing my skin.

What the hell?

I gasp one last, deep breath before they tow me under.

Suddenly, I’m alone again. They’ve left me to drown.

I blink, desperate to clear the haze from my eyes. I rub, hoping the water will wash it away.

The grey remains unchanged. Unsure which direction is up, I kick.

The water’s warm. Cold comfort. It soothes my aching muscles and joints. At least I won’t die frozen and trembling.

  


* * *

  


She’s moving. I can feel her.

She’s coming to my rescue again. That’s what she does. She’s my angel.

Which is a pretty strange thing to think since I’ve actually had two. I never call her that ’cause it’d just be confusing, but that’s what she is.

I hope Anya wasn’t upset. It was sort of my job to help her—mine and Halfrek’s. I just couldn’t face it. Who needs tradition? Why can’t the best man help the bride prepare for the wedding?

Well, yeah there’s usually the obvious, but—

Will’s crossing the room behind me. I don’t get why, but with everything that’s happened I feel her. I feel her constantly.

Xander’s been at full wig—needle in the red—careening toward his doom—for at least fifteen minutes. Way too wigged to notice me. I haven’t taken my eyes off him, but—

I feel the press of her body against mine. She wraps her arms wrap around me.  Her hand rests against my tummy.

“So, whatcha think, Will?” I ask, ignoring the slippery feel of our awful dresses. Anya _really_ outdid herself.

Funny thing. Willow’s beautiful. It’d take more than a horrible dress to change that.

Her chin rests on my shoulder. I clasp her hand that’s on my tummy. Her other hand’s left free to wander and it does. The room in front of us is alive with movement and muddled voices.

She replies in my ear, “Looks like a not-so-natural disaster waiting to happen.” The faintness of her voice as she murmurs in my ear causes me flush.

The words aren’t important. I hear them and understand she’s simply agreeing with me, but my body has different ideas. 

My breathing hastens. As I struggle to get a grip, Xander’s staggering father comes to my rescue in the strangest way.

Raising his glass, he bellows, “On the brighter side, marriage probably has saved me from a nasty case of the clap.” He busts up like that’s the funniest thing ever.

Failing to see the funny.

And I _still_ don’t see the funny when he adds, “Here’s to ya,” and tosses back his shot.

Like that matters. It’s a well-needed tension breaker.

I turn my attention to Xander again and I mumble, “Pretty much. Is it time to make with the big rescue?”

The strange old man vies for Xander’s attention. Persistent old cuss, he is.

Willow notices him too. She responds, “Looks like someone mighta beat us to it.”

“Who’s the old guy?” I ask with mixed interest.

“No clue. Maybe family? He sort of looks a little like Xander,” she replies. 

I slide my hand to her forearm and give it a quick caress. “Family’s exactly what Xander needs now,” I say and reluctantly slip from her embrace. “I’m going in. Cover me.”

Weird how brave she makes me.

I cross the room, dodging the tables and the people.

Xander glances up. He’s not doing well. I can see it in his eyes. He’s amid preparations for hari kari. No sword, but the thoughts are still there.

The old man falls silent when he sees me. I watch him slip away. There’s something about him I don’t like. He gives me a major, tingly, creepy wiggins.

I don’t say anything. I don’t need to. Xander accepts my outstretched hand. I put on my own personal version of ‘game face’ and glance around the room, defying them to question.

No one does. Big surprise. They never do. What I lack in bumpies and fangs, I more than make up for in glare.

My challenge goes unanswered for another tick or two, so I put my arm around Xander and guide him toward the door.

As we walk casually through the room together, he leans in to remark, “I think it’s about to hit critical mass.”

I reassure him, in a soft, snarky voice, “Nah…this is only about half-mass, Xander.”

He chuckles.

It’s the first time I’ve seen him laugh all day. It’ll be good. We’ll get through this.

Willow passes us, making a beeline for the bar. I hear her ask for three glasses of champagne and slow my gait, stalling to take in the show. She chirrups a, “Thank you.” She’s always polite, even when she’s not.

I pause by the door with my hostage and turn back to watch. “This should be good,” I comment wryly, gesturing vaguely at the impending scene.

After calmly sliding our drinks aside, Willow reaches over the bar and jerks the bartender up to face her by his shirt. I feel the energy building as she growls, “If you serve another drop of booze before the wedding, you’ll spend the rest of your life in a cage.”

I grin.

She means it.

Dropping him, she adds, “We clear?”

The bartender hastily straightens his shirt, looking like he’s seen a ghost.

I can imagine what he’s seen. Her back’s to me, but if I know Willow, she showed him whatever scares him most. 

She glances in Xander’s father’s general direction. “Coffee for the gentleman,” she says, motioning his way.

It’s obvious from her body language that that’s not a request.

As the bartender rushes to fill her order, she neatly balances two of the three glasses in her right hand, collecting the last one with her left.

I take Xander’s hand when she turns toward us and lead him from the building. As we step outside, I inhale deeply. Freedom smells a lot like rain today. Go figure, in a town called _Sunny_ dale, it’d storm on Xander’s wedding day. We huddle together under the overhang to stay dry.

Though I’m not convinced that ‘dry’ is in my best interest. If I got good and drenched, I’d have an excuse to change. Anya might even let me.

Uh, choices, _choices_ …

It’s not worth the drama. I sigh and offer an apologetic, “Sorry, if I’m getting in the way,” knowing full well he’s grateful. “Looked like you could use a break.”

“Nah…it’s good,” he replies.

The fresh, moist air starts to lift some of the oppression we both felt inside the church. Neither one of us is doing great. The reasons are different, but the emotions are similar.

My gaze turns to the ground at our feet. I ask, “Any second thoughts?”

“And thirds, and fourths…many thoughts,” he confirms.

I glance up to take in the worry etched on his face. “You and Anya are good together,” I say. It’s the simple truth. Not much else matters. I direct my attention to the ground again.

It’s hard for me to look at people when I talk to them. I don’t understand why. It just is. After clearing my throat, I try to explain, “No clue why or how, but I don’t have to get it to see. It’ll be fine.” I look up just long enough to smile reassuringly and tease, “Remember your lines?” It’s a given. One of those questions someone just has to ask.

His crooked smile pretty much says it all.

She’s almost here. He seems to sense it too. Maybe he just hears the door creak. Anyway, he moves to help her and ends up with a glass for the trouble.

I keep my attention fixed on the ground. When she hands the champagne flute to me, I accept it.

She raises her glass and says, “To family.”

I look up to join in the toast, raising my glass. It’s what she wants.

Her smile has a cynical edge. She taps her champagne flute against each of ours.

Family.

  


* * *

  


I swim for all I’m worth. My muscles burn with each stroke. I just pray I’m going the right way. That I might not be scares the bloody bejesus out of me.

I have no other choice. I tried floating to the surface. It didn’t work and I can’t understand why.

At least my body feels better.

I need air.

My head pounds in agreement. I hold perfectly still and say another little prayer for a miracle I know won’t come.

  _Please_.

 _Anything_ …

Any little thing will do. The impression that I’m drifting—that I’m being drawn by buoyancy or a current. A bubble skating across my skin would be just grand! _Any_ movement at all…

It’s useless. There’s nothing. I hang utterly motionless.

I’m going to die. That certain knowledge brings with it chills, panic, terror…all of which I fight.

But it’s pointless. I know as sure as I know that the grass is green, the sky is blue, water’s wet…without air, I will die. I’ll pass out and I’ll reflexively breathe, then I’ll drown.

The painful prickle in my head, the stinging in my eyes, the blindness, the numbness, the feeling of being completely disconnected, lost…it will get the better of me.

I almost take a breath. Instead, I recycle the air I have. I let it out into my mouth and breathe in, hoping to trick my brain another countless time.

Why am I not rising to the surface?

Splashes of light spot my eyes as my body surrenders to the inevitable.

Another minute passes, or is it ten? I don’t know. I just know it seems like hours since they abandoned me here. I feel myself going limp. I struggle to resist. The pain returns as I hang, suspended in darkness.

My will dissolves. I take my first breath.

I don’t understand why I’m not gagging. There’s almost enough of me left to care.

At first I tremble. It worsens. Convulsions cripple me.

I gasp and retch and…

As I give out—give in—succumb—my senses dull. The shaking gives way to numbness and this eerie sense of calm.

Nothing.

I’m blanketed in nothing. I hear nothing. Smell nothing. See nothing. Taste nothing. Feel nothing.

I reflexively draw in another lung-full. The nothing feels good in my aching chest. I’m breathing. It’s not air, but I’m not drowning.

‘There’s just what you believe.’

There’s hope. As I’m straining to see, I actually believe that. It takes several moments, but my eyes find something that—it’s something—I’m pretty sure—a faint splotch of luminescence.

Maybe it’s just my eyes. Maybe I’m losing my mind. Am I actually drowning? Is this just wishful thinking—the delusions of a dying mind? 

I have nothing to lose, so I swim towards it. There’s nothing left—

Nothing.

The light grows fractionally larger with each stroke. At first that’s almost imperceptible, but—

God, how big is this place?

It takes forever to reach my destination. I peer blearily into a tight, horizontal shaft. The water that flows from the tunnel is warm, sort of like a hot spring. It feels wonderful. I swim closer to try and figure out what exactly it is that’s glowing.

Tentatively, I reach out to touch a dim, luminescent orb. It feels supple with a squishy mass that depresses under my touch. As I caress the strange object, it moves against my hand.

Is it alive?

I guess it must be. As I pet the soft, slippery little puff, it opens. It’s almost friendly, pushing into my touch.

Well, I can’t go back—even if I knew where ‘back’ was—so I extend my arms forward and enter the passage.

Please be kind. I’ve had a bad day.

  


* * *

  


Still curious, I ask, “So, who’s the old guy?” And sip at my champagne. The little bit of alcohol’s taking the edge off. It’s good.

Xander glances anxiously at both me and Will before he replies, “No clue. He fed me this line about being ‘from the future’ and wanted me to touch some ball.”

I don’t stand a chance. The snicker’s already out there before I think to stop it. I hang my head and shake it shamefully. It’s awful. I should _so_ resist the urge, but I just can’t. I mumble, “I guess you know better than to touch some strange old man’s ball, right, Xander?”

He rolls his eyes and smirks. 

And for my next impressive display of wit I’ll poke fun at an embarrassing bodily function. It’ll be great.

 _Wow_. We’re a desperate bunch. That was barely above ‘pull my finger,’ but even Will seems amused. Her grin finally wears off and she remarks, “The future?” She cocks an eyebrow and asks politely, “Buffy, sweetie…when you finish your drink would you please go find our friend?”

A coy smile pulls at my lips. I whisper playfully in her ear, “Yes, Mistress.” Heat rises in my cheeks. And the concrete gets interesting again. I’m so hopeless.

Well, she knows now. I need her.

  


* * *

  


The passage narrows. If this gets any tighter, I’m screwed. I can’t turn around. At least my eyes are getting better.

These little plants thrive here. They line the entire surface of the passage. The squashy little life forms caress the surface of my skin as I move.

It’s strange. It almost feels like I’m being reborn. Or at least I can imagine this is what that feels like. It seems like they’re helping me.

The water gets hotter. I hope this is it. I take a breath and my lungs ache. My leg muscles strain with the heat.

I’m sweating. Or I think I’m sweating. It’s impossible to tell.

A short distance farther, my right shoulder snags something sharp. It digs in and I wince.

I can’t stop. They’re pushing me and I can’t stop them.

Oh God!

My skin tears open as I search frantically for something to hold onto. I need to stop them. I can’t speak. I can’t ask.

I try to tip my shoulder, but it’s hopelessly wedged. I have to find something and maybe I can—

All I feel are squishy little bodies. They push again and the rock digs deeper.

Wisps of blood stream in front of my face. As I thrash, it mixes, turning the water cloudy and pink.

I taste or ‘smell’ salt and copper.

I finally manage to twist just right and my shoulder slips underneath the rock.

The plants propel me forward and my shoulder burns. The rock draws a line from my shoulder to my rump.

Submitting to the pain helps me focus. Any movement on my part is irrelevant.

The truth is, I can’t move. If I do, I’ll hurt them.

The plants undulate, gripping and squeezing, loosening and tightening, squishing against my skin. The sensation is vaguely erotic. They massage every centimeter of my skin. I lay still, enjoying the feel of their caresses.

I’m actually grateful for the rest. This’d be so much more relaxing if it wasn’t so damned hot and I wasn’t wedged in here like a sardine in a can.

Several moments pass. I see the progress marked by a distant point…a lump. I’m not even sure what it is, just that the tunnel narrows. It worries me. That lump might be where my ride ends.

The heat grows painful. Every inch of me stings. Their touch is too much. Each compression brings a wave of pain. I hold my breath, fearful what the heat will do to my lungs.

My skin gradually numbs. I don’t know if the water isn’t as hot, or I just can’t feel it anymore. Still, I’m afraid to breathe.

I finally succumb to the need. With every breath, my lungs feel like they’re on fire. And the air’s so thin. I—

Scalded.

I try not to breathe. It’s pointless.

My mind drifts.

Scraps and bits. I remember why. I remember wanting to matter.

I don’t matter. There’s nothing I can do. I have to accept it.

Feeling helpless just makes me so mad. But I am. There isn’t a single thing I can do to change this.

Am I being judged again?

An answer echoes in my head, ‘Yes.’

I flinch.

I’m losing my mind.

The need to flee claws at me. Like I could run!

What happens if I fail the test?

A chorus of voices, all speaking in a strange harmony, rings through my mind, ‘We feed.’

Another sharp object digs into my chest.

I flail my arms…my legs.

They’re trapped. I can’t move!

The rock cuts into my breast. How deep, I don’t know, but it stings horribly.

My eyes burn behind my eyelids.

The creatures keep driving me forward.

I scream out in anguish. My pleas sound muffled to me.

They’re as irrelevant as my movements. I force myself to calm.

Nothing I do has any meaning here.

I am irrelevant.

  


* * *

  


Another night spent around the fireplace, basking in its warmth. Lounging back in my old rocking chair, I enjoy the company of my grandson as my wife putters around in the kitchen.

He sits perched on my knee. The amber light of the fire flickers, illuminating his cherub face.

My gaze travels around the room. I take in the rough, log walls and crude furniture. I built this place with my hands. Other folks might think it’s not much, but it means the world to me.

“Grandpa, are you sure you hafta go?” my grandson asks as my wife joins us.

I set him down and rise, striding across the small room before I reply, “I’m afraid so.” I embrace my wife, leaning back to cup her cheek. “You take good care of your grandmamma until I return,” I instruct. Young men like being made to feel responsible.

Turning for the door, I bid my wife to walk with me. We step outside and I offer sullenly, “You take good care of Elijah. I’ll miss you.” I’d rather not leave, but I must. I’ve put it off too long as it is.

She draws me into a tender embrace. Leaving gets that much harder. “Are you certain you must do this alone?” she asks.

“I wish there was another way, Cassie, truly I do,” I answer frankly. After giving her a peck on the cheek, I set off through the stand of old forest surrounding our home. Soon I clear the tree line and enter the familiar, rolling meadow.

I love this place.

Slipping my hand inside my pocket, I pass a finger over the tiny tapestry and peer up into the night sky.

Rovam hangs overhead, looking like a great saucer in sky. I turn my gaze eastward toward the void and Kulos guides my way.

I stride along the path I know by heart. My grandson and I passed this way today as we do every day. How many times have we exchanged those words?

Thousands, perhaps tens-of-thousands…

I don’t know. Enlightenment, speaking to innocence with a purity of spirit, never grows tedious. The words aren’t important. What matters is the exchange.

As I make my way across the meadow, I hum a wistful tune to pass the time. The light level dims when I reach the forest. I tread carefully, alert to stay on the path. Upon breaking through into the older growth of the forest, my pace increases, but only slightly.

The thick canopy shields me completely now from the light of the twin moons. Darkness presses in around me. I know this path by heart and there’s no reason to fear the absence of light.

Kulos greets me again at the forest’s edge. I peer into the slowly swirling star field, searching for the disturbance. When I locate the churning ball of light, I plunge into the void.

  


* * *

  


Didn’t I just ask for things to normal up? I was even nice about it. I know I was.

I throw myself at the demon and the guests—demon and human alike—go scattering. Funny how things change. This gorilla was a little old man a moment ago. Didn’t look like he could hurt a fly.

The beastie snarls at me and sidesteps my attack. Always critics—even when they go nonverbal, there’s always a complaint.

His hands close over my shoulder and hip.

Hey now! Watch the hands! You’ll rip my dress!

Wait! I want that. I rise into the air, above the demon’s head.

I fly through the air seconds later. Maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll tear the dress so bad I’ll get to go with the burlap and blood larva.

I try to be slick and spring neatly to my feet, but the dress kills it for me. I land on my ass with the stupid thing wound around my ankles.

If I live through this, Anya and me, we’re gonna have a serious talk. I finally manage to roll to my feet and the demon looms over me, brandishing a candelabra.

I punch him with all my strength square in the stomach. He doubles over. Standard reaction.

I grab the sides of his head and twist. No muss, no fuss. A satisfying cracking noise issues from his neck and I let go.

I clap my hands together and walk over to Willow. Glancing over my shoulder at the corpse, I snark, “What’s a wedding really without a little wanton violence and mayhem?”

Willow quirks an eyebrow and replies, “Normal.”

Yeah, well…there is that, but—I reply through a grin, “We wouldn’t want that.” I take Willow’s hand and walk to the front of the church. As we join the Xander, I mumble, “Clean up on aisle three.”

Clem and some teenager drag the demon from the room. Scratch the ‘teenager.’ He’s a demon. The funny ears totally give him away.

Willow gives me a quick kiss and takes her place beside Xander, whispering to him, “How you holding up, big guy?”

Xander shrugs and gives her a quirky, lopsided grin. “Think Buff would slay my father at the reception?”

As I move into position next to Halfrek, I just catch Willow’s muffled reply, “I’ll mention it. If he pukes in another one of her purses, it’s pretty much a guarantee.”

I snicker.

Giles is sitting in the front row, waiting to give the bride away. I wink at him. Bet he can’t wait for the ‘giving away’ part. Trouble with ‘giving’ is that it doesn’t mean ‘staying.’

Oh well, we can’t have it all.

Fixing my gaze at the back of the church, I breathe a muffled sigh of relief when the organist plays the wedding march.

At least Anya got a pretty dress.

  


* * *

  


I can’t hold my head up anymore.

One of the tunnel dwellers transform from a bud into a flower, opening its petals. It occurs to me that it looks something like an octopus, with suckers on each of its wide tapered limbs. The flesh of the creatures has the same appearance as a chemical glow-stick. As I draw closer, I can see the individual veins that spider-web out, illuminating its translucent flesh.

I hurt, but it’s different now. The heat makes it different. I feel every gash, but they’re all numb. It’s like the pain’s far away. I know it’s because my skin’s scalded. The nerves are damaged.

I feel my life leaking away, staining the water. With every heartbeat, I grow weaker.

I struggle to hold my breath because I understand that each one brings me closer to death. My rational mind tells me this. Instinctually, my body cries out desperately for air. My rational mind’s losing the fight.

When I can’t stand it anymore, I draw in a lungful. The pain is unreal. I feel the tissue sear inside my chest. The scant bit of oxygen in the hot water makes the agony all the more senseless.

I feel them. They demand answers I don’t have. Images stir, flashing into view. Everything’s so dull, so distant…I don’t know what’s real.

A demon hoists my limp body into the air like I’m some grotesque, over-sized doll. He declares, “Buffy Summers is dead!”

My head lolls back. Through half-open eyes, I peer out foggily over an inverted sea of demons as the sound of helicopters fills the cavern.

Who am I?

My vision clouds again, causing the translucent glowing creatures to turn milky. I feel something slice into my hip and barely wince.

As the world around me dims, turning black, I consider the power in a name.

  


* * *

  


The flowers flip end over end through the air. I stretch on tippy toes and bounce ever so slightly. This is sort of cheating. I catch the bouquet one-handed, holding it briefly like a torch. After giving Willow a quick sideways glance and a wink, I lower my hand.

Yeah, that _was_ cheating.

Anya glances over her shoulder at me. She shakes her head. I don’t see the eye roll. I don’t have to. I just know she does it. Turning to Xander, she brandishes a wolfish grin and an outstretched palm. “You owe me twenty bucks, mister. Pay up,” she declares.

Ah, _love_ …isn’t it grand? Get used to paying up, Xander. I am.

Passing the bouquet to my Willow, I take her hand and draw her into an embrace, gazing into her eyes. As the crowd around us thins, I kiss her, grateful that the guests are following the ‘happy couple.’ 

Stopping isn’t fun, but she forces the point. I get it. We need to be responsible. I withdraw just enough to half-grumble, half-whisper, “We should put in an appearance.” I know that’s what she’s thinking. Here’s what I’m thinking: “Then find a place to lose these awful things.” I pull at one of the slick ruffles of her dress to indicate my meaning.

She smiles brightly and nods her agreement. We make our way into the reception room hand-in-hand.

Xander’s face lights up when he sees us. He rushes over and snags Will, leading her away. She reaches back to pass me the bouquet.

I accept it and he ushers her into the group of bachelors. I’m clueless at this point so I lean against the doorframe to watch.

Xander has a quick talk with her and she crouches down with the men. He slips the garter from Anya’s leg, and then stands, his back to the bachelors and Will.

Yeah, okay this part’s pretty plain, but what the deal with Will is—no clue. I guess ’cause she’s the best man. Stretching the garter over his shoulder like a rubber band, he blindly shoots the frilly loop towards the group.

Quirking an eyebrow, I watch its flight path skew slightly left. Whatever he said to her must’ve been good ’cause she raises her hand and catches it with one finger. An athlete she’s not. She can barely catch a Frisbee without cheating.

Xander smirks at her and comes to get me.

Oh yeah! Jeez! I’d forgotten this. No wonder Will was all bad with the mojo. I’m glad she was. I can’t imagine sitting through Clem putting that on me. I couldn’t do it.

Xander whispers as he leads me to take the seat left vacant by Anya, “Tradition says: the further up your leg the garter goes, the longer Anya and me do the ‘happily married’ thing, so make it good.”

I’m screwed!

And I’m such a good sport. I sit down—a lamb to the slaughter—I bare my throat—er, leg…to just above my knee.

Talk about stacking the deck: a severely motivated witch to snag the garter with magic, now this.

How do I get myself into these messes?

Willow has my undivided attention. If I pay any attention to the others, I might—

I’m pretty sure that slayer-shaped holes aren’t covered under the insurance. They never are.

Will gracefully kneels at my feet. After my earlier sparring match with that attitudinally and dermatologically challenged goliath, I’m adequately impressed. These dresses suck!  

I raise my right leg enough to accept the garter, watching her thread it past the heel of my shoe. I take a deep breath and set my jaw.

Her hands caress their way up my leg.

Much to my dismay, any of the trademark Willow shyness has been put on hold.

I will not gasp.

Why would she be? That’d just be—

I grit my teeth.

This is just _mean_!

I will not gasp!

I curl my fingers beneath the seat of the chair.

I will not gasp!

My knuckles turn white. Can’t see. Don’t need to. They are. It just is.

Self-control…composure…

I will not break the chair! I loosen my grip.

I will smile and try to look bored.

Yup. I’m bored.

Her hands disappear under my skirt.

Witness me being bored…

I tense.

…and panicked!

While her right palm drifts over my hip and lingers, her left fingertips press firmly into the crotch of my panties.

Raw, unbridled panic!

Closing my thighs, clamping them tight…that gets me nothing! She’s already—

She finds just the right spot.  

I lose it. A muffled groan pushes its way past all of the gritting. I make this awful sort of ‘pfffttt’ sound. I’m just glad it’s not slobbery ’cause that’d just be—

My face flushes. A mockery of a smile just happens. My lips are still sealed. My jaw is still clenched. I’m sure that’s precious too.

Everything goes to mush. I glare at Willow in slack-jawed disbelief while laughter and applause erupt around us.

Of course, it’s not like she hasn’t had tons of practice pushing my buttons.

I giggle. That expression is just—

It dawns on me just how perfectly…utterly, completely, absolutely, one-hundred percent mortifyingly accurate it is.

The heat is—

They could fry an egg on my cheek. I drop my head in my hands to hide my face.

I could be—

Her hands trail slowly down my thigh.

I’m on a deserted island. Sandy beaches. Nice white sand—not the shaley, black volcanic stuff you see around here—and bright blue, crystal clear water.

Waves lap at the shore making that nice, soothing, splishy-splashy sound.

The sun shines on my face. That’s why I feel so warm. It’s wonderful. I lay on a blanket with a mojito and a good book.

Anywhere but here.

She stands, leaning in to whisper, “I’ll be back for that later.”

I can’t bring myself to look yet, but it’s getting better. The show’s over. The mob is moving on. I breathe a sigh of relief.

Xander whispers, “Knew you two wouldn’t let us down.”

No problem, Xander. Anytime.

I’ll slay you later.

Er, _see_ …

Uh, I meant _see_ …really, I did.

I still haven’t found my dignity when Willow offers me a hand. I dutifully take it. This is just—

Waves roll against the shore. I smell salt and suntan oil.

Calm, soothing, serene…

I’m good.

I follow her lead. We move to a pair of chairs along the dance floor held open by a beaming Giles. I seat myself next to him. I just hope he didn’t catch the last act. I might never—  

He places his arm around me and leans in to whisper, “You are aware that, as tradition would have it, you two are next. You have both my blessing and my love, should that be your choice.”

I nod in response. A nod is all I have and all I need to, umm…not-say. Words are meaningless. He just—

I clutch Willow’s hand in my lap and listen to the calming sounds of the string quartet. The song is by Pachelbel. I can’t remember the name, but it’s beautiful. It’s all beautiful. Any remaining unrest dissolves, giving way to the moment.

My attention rests on the newlyweds. The warm light centers on them. They look so happy together. A sentimental tear slides down my cheek. I reach up to brush it away.

This is why. Times like this are what make the struggle so worth it.

Soon, other couples join the newlyweds and Giles removes his arm to have the customary dance with the bride.

Rising to her feet, Willow offers me a hand, leading me to the dance floor. She pulls me into an embrace and leads us in a waltz.

As we move together, I gaze into her eyes, reading the wash of emotions. There’s this old expression, ‘she wears her heart on her sleeve.’ That’s my Willow. I always know what she’s thinking. It’s written all over her face. Right now her expression is filled with adoration. I saw her look at Tara this way and was happy for her—for them.

I never expected her to look at me the same way.

I hope this doesn’t upset her. All I want is to make her happy, but I need to feel her. I settle into her arms. I can’t help it. I rest my head on her shoulder. Her body presses against mine.

I know the right way to do this but, right now, the right way is the wrong way for me. I need to be closer.

It’s perfect.

The music flows and slows, keeping the cadence of a waltz. The tension drains away.

She trails her hands down my back. Her breath catches in her throat.

She needs this too.

  


* * *

  


Distant, muffled sensations break through the haze. Hands touch me, lift me…carefully drag me from the water.

I gag.

Warm, sweet, sour, salty, sticky fluid is expelled from my lungs. Watery, bloody soup fills my mouth and nose.

The movement slowly draws to a halt. I come to a halt.

They—whoever it is—I haven’t the strength to care—they turn me on my side so the fluid can drain.

I breathe and choke. And gasp and sputter. And wheeze and cough.

Many painful moments later that ends.

My body gives out again.

It’s curious. More visions. Broken fragments of people and places. Are they the stranger’s or mine?

I don’t recognize any of these girls or boys. The yard could be anywhere. The rooms…just so many white boxes.

I calm. I don’t care. I couldn’t move if I wanted. And fighting?

I doubt I could sit, let alone stand. Resisting this is laughable. I’m still irrelevant.

A trembling voice sounds out of the murk, “She was a charlatan, a faker, but noble in the same breath. Where do you fit in the puzzle? What thread?”

I force my eyes to open. A blurry form looms over me.

As I struggle to breathe, the acrid smell of the thick air burns my sinuses. My eyes water. I blink furiously to clear them.

Surely they needed to be cleared.

I peer up into the smooth face, searching for some indication of intent.

It’s impossible to tell. Its face looks like an unfinished statue. Like the artist got bored and just walked away. It has no eyes, so I stare into the shallow depressions where the eyes should be.

As I watch, the carved surface turns translucent. Behind the mask I swear I can see the kindly, winkled face of my grandfather.

I blink again and the illusion is broken. My gaze travels down the smooth, lustrous figure. Wings, but not. Like a manta ray or something.

I’ve lost it. My purchase on reality is void.

I should be frightened. I’m just too tired. My head slumps back.

Somehow I know he won’t hurt me. As he begins to study me again, the world around me turns dim.

And even if I’m wrong—even if he did—would I notice? Muted sensations, fuzzy images, and finally, I bathe in a comforting wash of blackness.

  


* * *

  


I glance up from buttoning my work shirt to see Willow slip into her dress.

A thick pout pulls at her lips. It’s playful, but not. She means it when she whines, “But I don’t wanna.”

My gaze lingers. I can’t help it. This dress, unlike that horrible green monstrosity, clings in all the right places and flows beautifully in all the others. My first impulse is to rip it off her. That’d be a total shame, but—

She’s trying to tie the halter herself and doing a great job. I almost want to just watch her finish. It’s fun. She has her hands behind her neck. Her breasts are pushed out and the burgundy taffeta clings to them, revealing every—

Okay, so…I should drag my mind from the gutter. If I don’t, I’m gonna be late for work.

I abandon my buttons and rise, closing the couple of steps that separate us. Gently, I take the silk from her hands and run it through my fingers. I love silk. This stuff’s texture’s a little coarse, but it still feels amazing. I tie the halter in place and she turns.

Her eyes are devilish, mischievous—I’m not sure ‘evil’ works, but she’s really pushing the limits. An impish grin replaces the pout as she parts my shirt and drags a nail between my breasts, trailing down my stomach.

I avert my eyes, staring at the perfect crescent-shaped scar on the curve of her left shoulder. I did that.

My tummy ties in knots just—

I don’t remember how or when or why it happened. It was mostly healed when I first saw it. That’s what I remember. I thought she’d been attacked by something.

She was. She was attacked by _me_. That’s what she told me. And she said it was okay.

How that’s okay is beyond me. That doesn’t get to be even remotely okay. The idea that I could—

It scares the hell out of me. I’m afraid I’ll fall apart, lose control, _snap—_ whatever happened before will happen again.

She doesn’t want me to worry. How can I not worry? If I can do that—if part of me—

She says she loves that part of me, even if I can’t. She accepts me as I am…and all those other sweet, sappy sentiments.

She assures me she’ll be fine—that I won’t hurt her—that she won’t let me. I have to trust her ’cause I don’t know what I’d do without her.

I’ve waited too long. She studies me. I should’ve said—

My head droops lower.

I need to—

Uh…

“I don’t wanna either, but I gotta,” I whisper sheepishly. “Remember? Us making a life together, Hellmouth be damned?” She knows I’m right, but in a weird way I’m challenging her authority. The ‘why’ doesn’t matter.

I should just feel lucky that she’s willing to put up with me and my broken brain.

I half expect her to rip my pants around my ankles, bend me over her knee and paddle my bottom. It’s screwed up. I actually want that. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t, but I want her to so much it hurts.

Parts of me are sticky again. I feel gross.

I’m a wreck.

She’s fine. No problem. She says, “Uh-huh. _But_ —”She falls silent and starts to button my shirt.

I’m a sweaty, sticky, icky mess. I _hate_ sweating.

When she finishes, she leans in and purrs in my ear, “I still just wanna take it off you.” Her hands rest casually on my hips.

I take a deep, would-be calming breath.

“Later,” I confirm, plastering on a playful smirk. I say that more for myself than her. The reason is different, but kinda the same.

She trembles as I run my nails over the bare skin of her back.

Looking up, I lean my forehead against hers and murmur, “Now, I have just about enough time to scarf a piece of cake on the run. Hope they’re not too grumpy over the disappearing act.”

“They’ll forgive us,” she replies.

I lean back to see her expression. It’s there. I knew it. Her impish smirk makes another appearance.

I love that smirk.

It transforms into a wolfish smile as she amends, “Besides, it’s tradition. The best man’s supposed to boff a bridesmaid after the wedding, right?”

‘Boff’? Seriously, after that, she gives me ‘boff’? I chuckle and muse, “Well, yeah…I’ve seen that in a few movies.”

Patting the small of her back, I withdraw. It’s now or never.

Chills run down my spine. I’m not sure I can wait. I tuck my shirt in and straighten it. It’s a distraction. A useful distraction.

There. I look like a good little rent-a-cop now. I turn, making my way out of the tiny dressing room. I just have to keep it together for a few more hours.

She follows me out the door. I slow to put an arm around her as she says, “I’m a real softy for a good tradition.” 

I don’t want to leave.

Of course, knowing me I’ll probably get there, get distracted and get—

“No later than one, Buffy,” she states firmly. It comes off almost like an answer…like she’s eavesdropping.

I smile. She gave me an hour leeway. It amazes me she knows me so well. It shouldn’t, but it does. I lean in to whisper, “Thank you.”

  


* * *

  


I’ve done everything for her I can. Her breathing is still labored and raspy. I wish there was more, but there’s only so much an old man can heal. She needs the attention of her kind.

I stoop down, carefully taking her in my arms. I feel shameful for touching her. She’s been through so much.

I was right. She is special. I cradle her head against my chest.

She’ll understand.

As I move across the cave, I focus my will. A rift opens and I step through into a forest. Taking a deep breath, I lean down and place her at the foot of a great oak. After pausing to caress the ancient tree, I gaze down at her haggard face.

“Care for her,” I whisper and turn away. A twinge of regret aches in my heart.

Dutifully, I pass back through the portal. It is my purpose to see the balance restored. I reach into my pocket and brush my finger over the tiny tapestry. It will mend.

  


* * *

  


A moist breeze blows in from the west. I stop along the dimly-lit path to look up at the sky. Dark, wispy clouds drift overhead, partially obscuring the stars.

There are so many. I’d forgotten just how many. Usually it’s so overcast you only see the brightest ones. The rain washed that away. A tuft of gray cloud drifts lazily over the three-quarter moon. My neck’s bent at a funny angle, but I don’t care. This is so pretty I stare until the cloud’s gone.

I draw a deep breath, filling my lungs to capacity before I let it go. Veering left, I pick the trail that’ll lead me to the most remote border of the campus.

A flash lights up the western sky. Another storm is about to pass through. Even without the light show, I would’ve known. The air has that feel. It’s heavy with a sense of—

It seems overly dramatic to think ‘foreboding,’ but that’s the best I have. I’m gonna take a pass on the cardboard sign this time. There’s no need to get out the Ouija board and try to contact Nostradamus to tell him what a jerk he was. This isn’t that tense.

There just aren’t any night birds singing. No little animal skitter and scrape. I’m the only thing on this trail that doesn’t have the good sense to find a spot to bed down.

Static plays on my skin. My shoes splash in a puddle from the afternoon’s rain. I reach down to zip my uniform jacket.

Another flash turns night into day and I begin to count, one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand. The rumbling clap of thunder stops the count. Three miles, give take. Give it fifteen – twenty minutes and the only thing comfortable out here might be a duck.

Even so, that doesn’t make this right. It isn’t right.

This kind of weather gives me a serious wiggins. This is an ‘I’m gonna get you, my pretty. You and your little dog too,’ sort of storm. It rains here about a dozen days out of the year—maybe a few more—depends—but never like this. This is something different.

Something bad, but different from the usual bad.

Lightning flashes again, illuminating the grounds and the woods just beyond them. I slow.

A light—

I double take. There’s no reason for that to be there. Freezing up, I train my attention on the spot between two trees. I wasn’t seeing things. A light shines in the forest. It’s really dim, but—

Shadows dance against the trees. Whether it’s them moving—the trees that is—or something else— _someone_ else—I can’t tell. The light burns out.

A gust of wind whips through the trees. Branches clatter and scrape. As the air calms, I hear stifled sobs. Thunder claps in reply. I turn my head, uncertain which direction the sobs came from. But I guess the sensible plan would be to go to where the light was.

Sensible, yeah that’s me.

I get my ‘sensible’ butt in gear, moving off the cement path. The dense, wet vegetation soon soaks the legs of my uniform pants. Not that it matters. It’s inevitable that I’ll be miserable sooner or later. It might as well be sooner.

I stop at the edge of the forest to search for the source of the noise. A subtle movement catches my eye. That might’ve been a hand. I can’t tell. I cautiously close the remaining ten feet between myself and—

My jaw goes slack as I round the trunk of the tree. A young woman lies at its base. All she has on is a caked layer of blood.

I reach for my radio and key the mic. Waiting for the squelch to end, I say, “Officer Summers reporting a possible code forty-nine in the southwest quadrant” — the static’s so thick I raise my voice to compensate — “just off G-trail in the forest. That’s a code _forty-nine_. Do you copy?”

I release the button and stoop down to feel her throat for a pulse. My skin crawls. I can’t—

Amid the crackle and hiss, I make out, “Copy that. Hold your position. Await backup.” I think that’s Morgan. I can’t tell. This storm’s really playing hell with our radios tonight.

I move my fingertips around until I find it—that faint throbbing that means ‘life.’ It’s not much. Sort of cold comfort. Everything about this is freaking me out. She’s bruised and cut so badly—

I remove my coat and drape it over her. My head’s swimmy. Landing on my ass is a distinct possibility. I drop to my knees instead and pat the ground, searching for my radio, finding nothing but roots, twigs and leaves.

I just had it. I feel my side. The damned thing’s clipped to my belt, where it should be. I hate when I do that. I ask, “Morgan…Summers again. If you could, send someone with a blanket?”

When I release the key, Morgan’s voice sounds back, “Copy that, Donny?” A second later, another male voice replies, “Got it.”

Good. Donny’s not a bad guy.

I’m afraid to touch—more afraid to look. But that’s irrational and I know it. I clip my radio back in place and turn my attention to her. The bit of un-crusty skin I see is red and puffy, like she’s been burnt. None of the cuts are uniform, like whoever did this used some sort of crude knife.

I stroke her long, blonde hair back from her face, making a few soothing, hushing sounds.

Lightning flashes through the trees. I fixate on her face…blown away to see someone who looks so much like me.

It is me!

I fall back. My heart races.

No! It can’t be me!

Thunder crashes. I jump.

She’s not me!

I swallow thickly and gulp in a breath.

Sweat beads up on my skin. I want to get up and run, but instead I clamber back.

I’m trembling. I’m not cold, but I can’t stop shaking. My mind must be playing tricks. I’m imagining things, seeing things—

I’m hyperventilating. Need to stop. I hold my breath and slowly exhale. I focus and inhale with equal care. The air catches raggedly in my throat.

I raise my hand to my face. My cheeks are wet. Am I crying?

Lightning crashes. There’s no pause this time. I see her face as the sky opens up. I was wrong. The resemblance is uncanny.

The forest canopy crackles. Wind whistles through the trees. And I move in to get a better look. Figures, after all that drama, I’m curious.

Her face is fuller than mine. Her body is too. If it wasn’t for the—she’d look better than me. ’Course, that wouldn’t take much.

Stupid storm. I want to see again, in good light, just to be sure. Using my flashlight seems mean, but I get over it and turn the obnoxious thing on, using my hand to dampen the glow.

It doesn’t take long for me to decide I’ve seen enough. She’s in bad shape. Some of her wounds ooze blood. It’s—

A drop of water splashes her face. Her eyes flutter. The skin around them crinkles and she bears down. When they open again, she peers blearily up at me.

As I look away, unable to meet her gaze, she says my name.

I flinch. My brain spins. Her accent’s really freaksome—she’s English. Like ‘God save the Queen’… _English_.

Finally, I manage, “How do you know—?” My voice breaks and I just leave it. That’s close enough.

Drawing in another, slow, careful breath, I crane over her to block the rain.

I wish she’d say something else. I need to hear her one more time just to be sure. That was, uh… 

If that wasn’t a fluke, then she _really_ isn’t me! She isn’t even trying to be me. She’s just, umm…

Well, massively unlucky seems like a reasonable place to start. Proof that looking like me can be hazardous for your health.

That’s an unsettling thought.

Continuing the theme, she gasps and tries to say something else. Her voice is really weak.

Tilting my head, I lean close to listen.

“He said you’d come,” she says.

He? He who? I sputter the obvious question instead, “Did he hurt you?”

She replies, “No. He rescued me. Brought me to you.”

Oh.

Uh…

 _Huh_. I’ve got nothing.


End file.
